


Seashells and Fingerpainting

by Vagabond



Series: Stories from the Cottage in South Downs [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biblical References, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Other, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), after the apocalypse-that-wasn't, gabriel stops being a big doody head, i definitely play with bible characters more than i should rip my soul, mentions of a historical beheading, soft, this is really a fic about gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: Gabriel is sent to earth for a heavenly attitude adjustment and with a little help from Crowley and Aziraphale, it just might work.





	Seashells and Fingerpainting

**Author's Note:**

> If there's one message I want this fic to convey it is this: don't forget to love each other. 
> 
> This is a sequel (though it can be read by itself) to [Rainstorms and Waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734808), part of what may become an ongoing series about the happenings at the South Downs cottage timed after the show/book story telling ends. I wanted to write about Gabriel, so I did. 
> 
> Shout out to [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/works) who showed me that Gabriel has more of a story worth telling.
> 
> **EDIT:** this has now, amazingly, been made into a Podfic by the wonderful [senseofenterprise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_boleyn_treatment/pseuds/senseofenterprise). You can listen [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873393)!

Gabriel is standing on the doorstep of a cottage in the pouring rain. 

_“Gabriel!” Metatron heralds his arrival in the corner office where they often appear, and then disappear, which Gabriel has always taken some measure of offense toward. What did the Metatron get off to when it wasn’t here? Was it on one long break until someone called for it? It was being paid for a full 40-hour week and yet by his estimate, it worked maybe five._

_Gabriel breaks out of that train of thought as he glances up at the slightly fuzzy face of a genderless being fashioned to look a bit like The Master from the old Doctor Who series of which Gabriel had watched, bored one day and interested in figuring out what the fuss was all about._

_“Yes, what is it? I’ve got a lot to do today, you know. Not all of us can just pop in and pop out whenever we please.” It isn’t true. Gabriel pops in and out whenever he pleases all the time. He also spends a lot of time watching The Office on Netflix. He uses Michael’s login._

_“Gabriel!” The Metatron says again, this time with a note of chastisement in it and Gabriel is appropriately cowed. And annoyed. “The Almighty has a new assignment for you.”_

_At that, Gabriel preens. It has been centuries since he’s received a direct order. Most orders these days come from Gabriel or the other archangels to lesser angels. When they get around to it, anyway. With the whole apocalypse situation currently a non-starter, there hasn’t been much in the way of orders or work to do. Just a lot of ‘catch up on your paperwork’ here and ‘lets reorder the entire filing system’ there._

_Idle hands and all that. They have to keep everyone on their toes._

_“And what does She need from me? I am, of course, Her faithful servant.” Gabriel hopes he’s infused enough pomp into his words. He wants the Metatron to recognize that this is a special moment, and he is the Almighty’s chosen one._

_“You’re to go to earth, Gabriel. She says you need an…” The Metatron pauses and Gabriel thinks it might be for dramatic effect, but it grimaces around the words as if it had sucked on a sour candy (and Gabriel knows how that is; Uriel brought him a bag back from earth and told him they were meant to be consumed all at once. She laughed at him for weeks afterward and his tongue burned). “Attitude adjustment,” it finally bites out._

_“A what?” The 180 Gabriel experiences is akin to a cymbal being played gently, vibrating a high tinny sound, only to be immediately silenced by two hands clapping down on either side of it._

_“An attitude adjustment,” it repeats with a pitying sigh that Gabriel doesn’t like. “You’re meant to go to South Downs, to Aziraphale and the demon Crowley.”_

_“I’m being punished,” Gabriel says before the words can be filtered. He finds it hard to breathe even though there’s no need for it. “She’s punishing me?” He’s edging on hysterical and his mind paces even though his body stays right where it is. “What did I do?”_

_“This isn’t punishment,” the Metatron answers, “it is a lesson.”_

_“What am I supposed to learn?” Gabriel demands, “just tell me now and we can forego all this.”_

_“That is the end of Her message. You have your orders, Gabriel.” Then the Metatron is gone, sputtering out of existence like a candle in the wind._

“She couldn’t even give me good weather,” Gabriel grumbles as he stands, just as he has for the past fifteen or so minutes, in front of a cheerful wooden door he doesn’t want to knock on. He’d rather continue to get soaked than face Aziraphale, or the serpent. He’s moping. And the last time he moped like this was when Michael and the rest went down to earth for a party and didn’t invite him.

In answer to his inaction, the door opens just a crack and he recognizes one of Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes peering around it. 

“Gabriel,” he greets, but doesn’t open the door any further. There’s a chain, Gabriel realizes, that keeps it right where it is. 

“It is raining,” Gabriel replies, though what he wants to say is _I don’t want to be here_ and _I’m being punished, which is why I’m standing in front of your door soaking wet in the rain_ , as well as a touch of _please let me in I don’t like it out here_. He says none of it. He won’t give Aziraphale the satisfaction. 

“So it is.” They stand through a beat of uncomfortable silence. “Is there something I could do for you, Gabriel?” 

“Let me in,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” 

“Let me in,” he says, louder, trying to puff up his chest with bravado and authority despite there being nothing behind it except frustration and shame. 

“Why?” It isn’t the answer Gabriel expects and he sputters out like an engine that’s been abruptly cut off. 

“Orders.” He stares, trying to compel Aziraphale to obey. 

“I’m afraid I don’t take orders from you anymore.” Now Aziraphale puffs his chest up a bit, looking like a finch trying to frighten away a crow. Except Gabriel isn’t a crow in this situation, not really. Maybe he was, once, before he was given instructions by God Herself to go and learn some sort of ridiculous lesson. 

“Now if there’s nothing else, I hope you have a good evening Gabriel.” Aziraphale makes to shut the door and Gabriel acts on instinct, shoving his hand into the gap. Unfortunately it doesn’t stop the door’s momentum which wedges his hand between the door and the frame, pain sparking down his arm. 

There’s an undignified yelp that fills the air and Gabriel would like to disown it immediately as he pulls back his throbbing hand and holds it to his chest. He glances up at a shocked Aziraphale, taking in the blurry lines of his face only to realize they’re blurry because of the tears in Gabriel’s eyes. He turns immediately, showing his back to Aziraphale as he clumsily wipes them away as more come unbidden. 

_Stop this_ , he thinks to his corporeal form which flips him the bird and douses him with a wave of rejection that drags a soft choked little sound from his throat. He wants to be back in Heaven, where he can sit in his office alone and watch things and sometimes show off for Michael. 

“Oh, oh dear,” Aziraphale says behind him and there’s the sound of metal sliding and a door creaking further open. “I didn’t - well, what were you thinking? Shoving your hand in the door like that? Foolish thing to do.” There’s a hand at Gabriel’s back that makes him jump, but there’s familiarity in the touch. Angels, after all, are all connected by divine grace, and touch is just one way to share that connection. 

“Come in, come on now, that’s a dear,” Aziraphale fusses and leaves Gabriel standing just inside the door, still clutching his hand to his chest. He gazes down at the hardwood floor as water drips off of him. 

When he finally looks up, he doesn’t see Aziraphale. Instead, he finds the serpent watching him from where he leans casually against the door frame to the kitchen. His bright yellow eyes are uncovered and Gabriel finds them difficult to look at, so he glances away. The strange prickle of shame finds him again and seems keen on setting up shop somewhere near his heart. 

“You’re dripping,” the demon says and Gabriel has a difficult time pinning down his tone. It sits somewhere between cajoling and genuinely confused, like he wants to torment Gabriel but can’t quite bring himself to do it. 

“You’re observant,” Gabriel bites back, making sure his tone is sour. He doesn’t need the demon’s pity.

“You could miracle it away, you know.”

“That would count as frivolous use of miracles,” Gabriel replies, curt and to the point as he straightens his shoulders and tries to remind himself that _he’s_ the good one here. 

He’s also the one who has been tossed to earth for an attitude adjustment, which he remembers and then promptly shoves the thought into a box in the back of his mind. 

“Guess so.” 

They’re saved from their painfully awkward conversation by Aziraphale’s return, arms piled high with cream colored towels and a stack of folded clothes. 

“Here we are.” Aziraphale foists the clean clothes into the demon’s arms before he wanders over with the towels. “Lets see.” He drapes one over Gabriel’s shoulders, then drops another onto the floor and guides him to step on it. 

“Try to dry off a bit here, so you’re not dripping everywhere. Then we’ll send you off to the bathroom to get properly changed. Crowley, be a dear and make sure Gabriel finds the bathroom? I’m going to see about a cold compress for his poor hand.” Then, like someone walking through a burning building without realizing it is burning, Aziraphale potters right out of the room. 

Gabriel clutches the extra towel that had been pushed into his hands and scowls at the demon, because his face has crumpled into barely contained laughter. 

“I don’t want to hear a word from you, demon,” Gabriel growls, as much as angels can growl, which really comes out sounding like a seven year old trying to intimidate their parents into believing that they won’t ever eat dinner again, because their bedtime is too early and they object to it. 

He begins to aggressively towel off his hair as the demon mimes zipping his mouth and throwing away the key, despite the laughter evident in his eyes. 

Once he’s no longer dripping and removes his shoes and jacket, he reluctantly trails the demon down a hallway to the bathroom. The demon sets the clothes on the counter and turns on the light, motioning Gabriel in as he steps out. Then, without a word, he disappears back down the hall and leaves Gabriel alone with his wet clothes, throbbing hand, and worst of all: his thoughts. 

Shutting the door, Gabriel slumps down onto the closed lid of the toilet and puts his head in his uninjured hand. He’s in the same position when there’s a knock on the door and he’s not entirely sure how long he’s been sitting.   
  
“Gabriel,” it is Aziraphale’s voice, hesitant and concerned, “are you quite alright in there? It has been a bit, wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything. I’ve got a cold compress for your hand.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence before the door cracks open. “I hope you’re decent.” Aziraphale pokes his head in and frowns. Gabriel catches the look out of the corner of his eye before he shuts them tightly. 

“Oh, my.” Aziraphale tuts, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and it squeezes. “Come on now, you ought to at least change.” 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Gabriel snaps, his head finally coming up to meet Aziraphale’s startled blue eyes. “You were never nice to me.” 

“The same could be said about you, Gabriel.” Aziraphale straightens his shoulders and takes back his hand. “But when someone - anyone - shows up at my door soaking wet and injured, whether it is by their own stupidity or not, I’m obligated to help. There’s no reason to be snippy about it. You’re welcome to show yourself out at any time if my hospitality grates on you so.” 

Gabriel hangs his head and stares at the red mark blossoming across his hand. 

“Now if you are not going to leave, I would appreciate it if you would change your clothes so we can put those ones out to dry, and then come to the kitchen so that I may see to your hand.” His tone leaves no room for argument, so Gabriel doesn’t bother. 

“Yes.” It is all he says as Aziraphale exits and shuts the door behind him. 

Once he’s changed into a soft, dry, long sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he meanders in the direction of the kitchen. Every now and again he pauses in the hallway because there’s photographs in frames hung along the way. A group of children - one he recognizes at the Antichrist - gathered around a dog and grinning. Another appears to be the Witch and the man she was with at what was supposed to be the end of the world. 

The one that catches him off guard, however, is what he believes the kids call a “selfie” of Aziraphale and the demon, set against a red checked picnic blanket. They look happy. It leaves Gabriel with an uncomfortable weight in his chest. Dragging his eyes away he makes it to the kitchen where Aziraphale sits and the demon is nowhere to be found. 

“Where is the serpent?” He asks in what he believes in a neutral tone, but he receives a sharp look from Aziraphale for it anyway. 

“His name is Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “and you will refer to him as such if you are going to stay here for any length of time. Now sit.” 

Gabriel sits. He startles when Aziraphale gently takes his wrist in hand to inspect it. Gabriel avoids eye contact and stares at his lap.

“It will likely bruise,” Aziraphale says as he prods it and Gabriel winces, “but I don’t think you’ve managed to break anything. As such, I don’t think a miracle is in order. Just a cold compress should do, over the next couple of days.” 

Aziraphale sets his hand on the table and walks to the freezer, pulling from it a flat, rectangular ice pack. On his way back over, he yanks a tea towel off the counter and wraps it around the ice pack. With a bit of fussing he manages to get it the whole thing wrapped around the injury. Gabriel sighs in relief, the cold soothing his battered hand. 

“Would you like tea?” Aziraphale asks as he puts the kettle on. 

“No.” Gabriel receives a reproachful look from Aziraphale, “no...thank you.” 

Aziraphale smiles. Gabriel hates the way the light of it chases away a tiny bit of his shame. 

He makes tea for himself before he sits across from him at the table, stirring in a bit of milk and sugar. “Now,” he sits back, shoulders straight, eyes kind but suspicious, “explain to me what’s brought you here.” 

Gabriel explains it, embellishing it as he goes. Yes, the Metatron told him he had orders from God to go down to earth and spend time with Aziraphale and the dem-er-Crowley. No, he’s not sure how long he’s supposed to stay. No, he doesn’t know what sort of lesson he’s supposed to learn. Yes, the Metatron called it an _attitude adjustment_. 

At the confirmation of those words, Aziraphale’s eyes widened a fraction, lips quirking into a smile. 

“I see,” he says, and Gabriel believes he sees more than he’s letting on. What does he know that Gabriel doesn’t? 

“We’ll make up the office for you,” Aziraphale seems to decide after a long sip of tea. “Do you sleep?” 

“No,” his lips curl unpleasantly, “why would I?” 

“You’d be surprised at how nice it is sometimes to have a little lie-down, shut out the world for a bit.” Aziraphale shrugs. “Up to you. Crowley and I tend to sleep most nights, though I get up long before he does, lazy thing.” 

“Sounds like he’s tempted you into sloth,” Gabriel points out, frowning. 

“I suppose he has.” Aziraphale smiles, which doesn’t seem like the appropriate thing to do when one has just been called out for one of the seven deadly sins. Just how far has Aziraphale fallen? 

“I’ll make up the futon anyway,” he continues, “just in case you’d like to lounge or take a rest.” Gabriel’s spine tingles as a divine spark of energy catches his attention and he realizes quickly that Aziraphale did not own a futon a moment ago, but there will be one up in the office nonetheless. He wants to be annoyed by the use of a frivolous miracle, but for once in his life he keeps his mouth shut and accepts it. 

Late into the night the cottage is quiet. Aziraphale had gone to bed hours earlier and Gabriel hadn’t seen the demon - Crowley, he’s got to call him by his name if this is going to work - since the bathroom. With nothing to do, he sits on the edge of the futon and once again stares at the bruise on his hand. 

An _attitude adjustment_. That’s what the Metatron said, and somehow Aziraphale understood it better than Gabriel. What has he done wrong? Why is he being punished? 

“It isn’t fair,” he says to the air, though he’s talking to Her even though She won’t talk back. “Punishing me when I don’t even know what I did wrong.” 

Gabriel flops back onto the bed and takes up staring at the ceiling. He misses Heaven. He misses Michael’s little smirks and Sandalphon’s compliments, and he misses Uriel even though she still brings up the sour candy incident every once and awhile. They’re his friends and his siblings and the thought strikes him - do they miss him? Do they even know he’s been temporarily exiled to earth to pay penance for something he doesn’t understand? 

_They’ll come looking for me_ , he thinks. However, something inside of him doubts. The doubt forces him further up onto the futon until he curls on his side hugging a pillow to his chest. It makes him bury his face in the pillow as doubt coils around his insides and squeezes. With a thought the lights shut off, and Gabriel lies there in the silence with his face pressed up against a pillow wondering how he ended up being so lonely. 

**

Breakfast is a strange concept. Well, no, Gabriel understands why humans need it. He merely finds it to be a strange concept when he goes into the kitchen in the morning and finds Aziraphale standing over the stovetop cooking eggs. Angels don’t need to eat, but there he is nonetheless, _indulging_. It irks him. 

“So that’s how you got to be so soft,” he says without thinking. Quite literally, as it surprises him when Aizraphale’s posture goes rigid and his head ducks down like the eggs cooking away in the pan are the most interesting thing on earth at that moment. “I’m just saying – ”

He’s shoved against the wall before he gets the words out, choking on them as the dem – Crowley’s – slitted yellow eyes shoot daggers at him. Their faces are nearly touching with how close Crowley is. His breath ghosts over Gabriel’s cheek and he can sense the rage emanating off of him. 

“Don’t,” Crowley begins, voice dripping venom that makes Gabriel think of black scales with hints of shimmering red, “ever insult him in our home. You are a guest here, and lucky that we don’t throw you out on your ass to learn your lesson some other way. He is so much better than any of you –” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice rings through the kitchen with a smidge of heavenly authority behind it. Both Gabriel and Crowley turn their heads to look at him. “Leave him alone. You’ve said your piece,” he crosses over to them and takes Crowley’s arm, leading him back and away. “Thank you for defending me.” 

He kisses Crowley’s cheek and Gabriel looks away, trying to find anything except them. Except _that_ , trying to ignore the wave of love that hits him and leaves him nauseous. Before either of them can turn their attention back he slips out of the room and back down the hall, seeking out the office. Once he’s inside he slides down the length of the door to sit with his back against it, head in his hands. 

The yearning to go home grows inside of him like a tidal wave, threatening to bowl him over and leave him half drowned. Why does he feel so guilty for pointing out the truth about Aziraphale? That a life of sloth, of greed, of indulgence has left him soft and his corporation out of shape? And Crowley, the look in the demon’s eyes when he had Gabriel pinned…

He stays like that for the rest of the morning and neither Aziraphale nor Crowley come to check on him, even though he secretly wishes they would. 

**

When he finally emerges well into the day he finds the cottage is empty and he’s alone. To make sure of it he checks each of the rooms – except the bedroom, of course – and confirms that he has been left behind. It reminds him of Michael’s party, of finding out about it after the fact, when the other angels told him he wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway. 

He would have, he’s sure of it, if only because he likes being around them wherever they are. Now, though, he’s beginning to wonder if they like being around him. 

Aziraphale and Crowley clearly don’t. At a loss, Gabriel miracles casual, warm clothes and decides that a walk to clear his head will do nicely. He leaves through the front door and makes his way up the gravel walkway to the main road and then, on a whim, he turns left and begins heading toward the water. 

He doesn’t quite make it there as he’s waylaid by a young boy of about six crashing into his legs in pursuit of a cat.

“Oof! Sorry mister!” The boy says from where he’s fallen back onto his rear. He smiles up at Gabriel, his two front teeth missing. It alarms Gabriel for a moment until he remembers it is normal for human children to lose their teeth around this age. 

“You should be more careful,” he says sternly, “and not just because there might be people around. There could have been a car.” 

The boy’s face falls and Gabriel begins to regret his words. Is there no way to win anyone over? 

“I know, sir, but my cat – well, she’s not exactly _my_ cat but mum said I needed to learn to take care of animals before she’d let us get a pet and I thought, well,” he stands and brushes off his trousers, “if I could take care of Mitsy, she’s a stray y’know, that maybe she’d let me bring her inside the house eventually and I’d finally have a cat.” 

“I see.” Gabriel glances in the direction the cat went, then back at the boy. “Would you…like help finding her again?” He grimaces, but the boy’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. It reminds him of the face of another boy he knew. 

“Well, come on then. She’s got a bit of a head start but we’ll find her.” Gabriel begins to head in that direction only to startle when a little hand slips into his and squeezes. 

“C’mon!” The boy tugs at his hand and tries to pull him forward. “I’m Charlie, what’s your name?” 

“Gabriel.” A small smile steals across Gabriel’s lips as something warm blossoms in his chest. “Lead the way.” 

_Gabriel likes being a messenger, he thinks. At least when it comes to delivering good news. He’s just visited Zechariah, to inform him his wife Elizabeth who has been otherwise barren is to give birth to a son. It is a gift from The Almighty for Her faithful servants._

_It is echoed when he meets Mary, the mother of Jesus, though she takes the news with far less grace. She’s just a girl herself, after all, betrothed to a kind, but older man. There’s implications that come with divine pregnancy and she’s not sure how her betrothed will react to the news. Why would he believe her? And Gabriel reassures her that he’ll take care of that, too._

_It is years after the messages are delivered that curiosity gets the best of him. Gabriel isn’t prone to curiosity for the most part. He’s content with following orders and maintaining the status quo. But there’s something that reminds him about the children whose births he heralded so long ago and he wonders where they are, what they’re like._

_He goes to earth and dresses plainly but Elizabeth recognizes him somehow. She says nothing when he comes to her home seeking refuge for an evening but there’s a look in her eyes that’s full of gratitude. It leaves Gabriel warm from his belly to his chest. It was his miracle, after all, that gave her the one thing she’d wanted for so long, and unlike most of the ineffable plan he had the chance to revel in the joy of Her work through him._

_Gabriel meets the boy when he crashes into his legs, all scraped up arms and dirty feet, looking up at him with wide eyes and a bright smile. He’s five or six, just figuring out the limits of his long arms and legs, and radiates messy goodness._

_“Hi!” The boy straightens his posture but his smile doesn’t fade, “I’m John.”_

_Gabriel crouches to be at the boy’s level, “Hello John, I’m Gabriel.”_

_“Do you want to come play with me? I found a cool rock formation, come on.” He takes Gabriel’s hand without an ounce of fear and tugs, pulling Gabriel to his feet and back out the door._

_“Be back for dinner,” Elizabeth calls out._

_He stays for three days, because on the fourth as he’s considering another night of playing and talking and kindly turning down offers of more wine, another mother and father and son come to visit. Elizabeth introduces her cousin. Mary is older than Gabriel remembers, though still young in human years. There’s a joy in her eyes that replaces the fear he remembers all that time ago and that warm sensation returns for a moment._

_Then he meets him, the Christ-child, Yeshua – Joshua – known later more widely as Jesus. He’s only a little younger than John but his eyes hold something in them that inspires Gabriel to kneel. Of course he rejects the inspiration, forcing his feet to remain under him because even in these circumstances bowing before a child would foster confusion and there would be enough of that in the years to come._

_The child looks at him and knows. He sees it in the quirk of a smile on his lips, the spark of recognition in his eyes, a look that says_ **_I know you_ ** _, and_ **_thank you_ ** _, and_ **_yes it is going to hurt_ ** _. In the midst of it John rushes up to greet his cousin and Gabriel sees it all, then, in the way they embrace._

_He sees a river and hears John’s deep voice calling out of the wilderness. He sees the Christ-child on the cross._

_The worst of it, though, is John’s head rolling across the ground after it is severed from his body. John’s head served up on a platter to the laughter of those who despised him. John’s dead, lifeless eyes peering up to the heavens._

_He excuses himself. Apologizes. Catches one last look from Her son that says_ **_I’m sorry_ ** _and_ **_don’t stop loving_ ** _but it is too late._

_Gabriel doesn’t go back to earth for a long time after that._

They find the cat, though it takes a miracle. Charlie’s face is as bright as the sun and puts Gabriel’s heart in an uncomfortable vice. The cat eventually settles in the boy’s arms as they walk back in the direction they came. 

“Thank you Mister Gabriel,” Charlie says as he holds Mitsy up to his face and rubs his cheek against her. The cat considers swiping at him but a look from Gabriel has her purring contentedly again. 

“You’re welcome, Charlie.” He walks the boy all the way back to his house as a woman approaches at a sprint. 

“Charlie!” Her voice is that terrifying mix of anger and relief that only mothers can achieve and have, all the way back to the first time Eve nearly lost Cain when he climbed up a tree and almost fell. 

What catches Gabriel off guard is the way she puts herself between him and the boy, insisting Charlie go into the house while she stares at Gabriel warily. 

“Who are you?” She snaps once Charlie is gone, and cold dread slithers down Gabriel’s spine. 

“My name is Gabriel. Your son ran into me earlier, when he was chasing the cat. I went to help him find it.” None of his words make a difference. He can taste her suspicion. It is bitter and unpleasant like a surprise splash of seawater. 

“I’ve not seen you around here before.” She crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I’m visiting friends down the road.” 

“Which friends?” This woman is sharp, eyes hard, mouth set into a thin line. 

“Aziraphale and Crowley,” he says without knowing if those are the names they give, but something in her face softens ever so slightly and now it is his turn to let bitterness course through him. It is like getting a test back to find out you only got a C when you expected an A. 

“They’ve left you to wander?” The softness remains but mixes with the remaining suspicion. 

“I came from the United States,” he lies, “jet lag. They went out to run errands and let me sleep.” 

“Indeed we did!” Aziraphale’s voice chimes behind him and Gabriel turns and will deny the relief that floods him at the sight. “I apologize, Gabriel. Apparently we’ve left you to go off and get into trouble.” 

Gabriel watches as Aziraphale shuffles past him and greets the woman with a hug and a kiss to her cheek. The suspicion in the air evaporates and is replaced by an impossible to miss affection that floats like the fluff from a cottonwood tree. They’re caught up in each other having a conversation that excludes Gabriel, so he turns with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket and begins trudging back toward the cottage. 

The only thing he catches on the wind is the high note of a surprised exclamation when someone realizes he’s gone and it inspires him to move quickly. Really, he could jog and probably outpace Aziraphale but they’re going back to the same place and it wouldn’t really matter. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale chastises and it grates on him, “I wanted to introduce you properly.” 

“She didn’t want me there,” he says and pretends he didn’t just snap at Aziraphale, “neither did you. Why would you bother?” 

He doesn’t wait for the answer, just walks faster, uses his long legs to get away from Aziraphale who huffs behind him. Gabriel wants to outrun Aziraphale, and the memories of John, and the good, warm feeling he got when he helped Charlie, because none of it matters. The world blurs and he stubbornly wipes at his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“Gabriel!” His name is sharp and wielded like a flaming sword and he stops dead in his tracks and stares at the gravel beneath his shoes. 

“What?” Gabriel means to snap again, means to really put a lot of feeling in it this time, but it comes out as a broken rasp instead. 

Apparently he sounds pathetic enough that Aziraphale’s frustration ebbs into a soft, “oh, dear boy.” 

“She thought I wanted to hurt him” spills from Gabriel’s lips as the tears slide down his cheeks and he thinks of John’s bright face and the Christ-child’s apologetic eyes, and how little he wants to love humanity outside of what’s required of him as an angel. “I could _feel it_.” 

“It is the way of the world these days,” Aziraphale murmurs and puts a consoling hand on Gabriel’s arm and it makes his skin crawl with shame. “She has to protect her child. You can’t hold it against her. That’s why I wanted to introduce you to her, so you could see –”

“What’s the point?” Gabriel interrupts, fists clenching even as Aziraphale’s hand squeezes, “they’re just going to die. She’s going to die. What’s the point?” 

“Come now,” Aziraphale uses the grip on his arm to tug him back toward the cottage, “let’s go back home. I’ll make us a cuppa.” 

Gabriel pulls his arm away and stares stubbornly in the direction of the sea, despite being unable to see it. “That cottage isn’t my home.” 

Aziraphale sighs like a parent whose teenager has just said ‘you don’t understand!’ for the hundredth time right before slamming a door. He comes to stand beside Gabriel and joins him in his staring. 

“It is hard, loving them,” Aziraphale admits quietly. “I see it too, in Jess’ face and Charlie’s smile. They’re going to die and leave me behind like all the humans before them and there’s nothing that I can do about it.” 

Gabriel says nothing. There’s nothing to say. Aziraphale will get to his point one way or another, so Gabriel wipes away tears even though more continue to fall as he aches for Heaven. 

“But it is worth it. It is worth it for the smiles, the hugs. It is worth it when you get to hold their hand as they grieve or walk with them as they collect seashells. I’ve known a lot of humans in my long life, Gabriel. They’re such clever, wonderful things, despite their capacity to be terrible, and I’ve hated them as much as I’ve loved them.” 

Silence passes between them as the words sink in. Gabriel listens for the whispers of the past, tries to conjure images of Aziraphale’s relationships with people. The only thing he sees when he does it is John’s innocent face shifting into a mangled, bloodied thing. 

“To love is to hurt. I wish I could tell you there was a cure for it but I’m afraid there isn’t. Humanity is messy.” 

“Why do you choose to stay here, then?” Gabriel thinks of sterile white walls and his tidy office and his dust-free desk. There’s no mess in Heaven. No blood. 

Aziraphale makes a thoughtful noise and Gabriel glances at him, watches him rock back on his heels and then forward onto the balls of his feet. “Because there’s beauty in the mess, Gabriel,” Aziraphale turns his blue eyes to him, “sort of like finger painting, I suppose. Have you ever tried it?” 

“No.” Gabriel frowns. 

“Well I have. It is a silly kind of thing. You quite literally stick your fingers in paint and smear them across a page. It makes a mess, but somehow in the midst of it you can create beautiful things. Whorls of mixed colors you would have never dreamed of before, stamped with fingerprints and sweat. It is unpleasant and wonderful all at the same time.” Aziraphale clasps his hands in front of him and offers Gabriel a very gentle smile. “That’s a bit of what it is like to love humans.” 

“Is that why you were willing to give up everything to keep the world from ending?” 

“Yes, at least in part. I wanted to save the world for them, and I wanted to save the world for me, and for Crowley, because this has become our home. Much like Jess was ready to protect her home and child, I will always stand ready to defend mine, even if it means ruffling Heaven’s feathers.” 

Gabriel considers that, even though it sits with him about as well as oil and water sit together. Defying Heaven for the sake of the mess on earth seems like such an odd choice for an angel, yet here he is being punished while Aizraphale gets to enjoy his humans and his tea and his food and his sleep. 

“Please come back to the cottage.” Aziraphale’s hand is on his arm again and this time Gabriel resigns to it and nods mutely. They begin walking, though something continues to weigh on Gabriel and the lump in his throat returns. 

“You left me, earlier,” he whispers because he’s ashamed of how much it hurts. It shouldn’t hurt. Aziraphale is a traitor and Crowley is the enemy and he doesn’t even want to be here but at the same time neither of them came to check on him, not once, before they left him alone. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale draws out the syllable uncomfortably and his expression reflects guilt through the crinkle of his brow and the downturn of his lips. “You were rather rude this morning and this whole thing has taken us a bit by surprise. So we went out for a bit.”

There’s a war raging on inside of Gabriel that makes him nauseous. On one side are his strict values, his defenses against the cruelty of the world, and the pain of loss. You can’t lose someone if you never have them in the first place, after all. On the other side is a strange flicker of a desire somewhere deep in his non-human heart that begs to be coaxed into a roaring flame. It is a spark that yearns to be connected, to let barriers and self-imposed restrictions go in order to experience life in the present, in all of its messiness. 

He caves in to the former and builds his wall back up, reinforcing it with fear and uncertainty. They’re slathered into the cracks like spackle, cementing it all together. He doesn’t say anything more and neither does Aziraphale as they go inside and Gabriel silently heads to the office. He catches a glimpse of the concern on Aziraphale’s face before he disappears down the hallway and hides away in the room. 

Gabriel sits on the floor against the door with his forehead pressed to his knees and doesn’t leave for a while. 

**

Aziraphale checks on him this time, hours later. There’s a knock on the office door that breaks Gabriel out of his misery and reminds him that he’s stuck on earth and no closer to figuring out this mysterious lesson. 

“What?” he says but doesn’t move from in front of the door. Aziraphale must try to open it because it pushes against Gabriel’s unmoving back. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale’s voice is heavy with worry and Gabriel hates it. Angels aren’t supposed to hate, but he can’t handle pity and that’s all this is. Pity. Like Michael insisting she’ll invite him along next time. 

“I’m fine, Aziraphale,” he manages to reply. “I need time.” 

“You don’t have to be alone, you know.” _I’m here_ is unspoken, and unnecessary. Of course he’s there. Of course Gabriel could leave this room or let Aziraphale in and have someone to be with. The problem is that he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s fake anymore. His perceptions of what is right and wrong blurred the moment the Metatron told him he was to report to earth, to this very cottage, to learn some lesson that continues to evade him. 

“Thank you.” The words are dry and meaningless on his tongue. There’s no real thanking to be had here. Aziraphale’s offer is out of pity, or duty, and so is Gabriel’s thanks. 

“I’ll be awake, if you need anything.” He hears the creak of old wooden floorboards under nervous feet for a moment before Aziraphale walks away. 

**

“Are you done moping?” 

The voice startles Gabriel out of his unintentional doze. He’d made it back to the futon at some point in the evening and now streams of pre-dawn light are trickling in through the spaces between the curtains. He looks with bleary eyes in the direction of the voice to find a fully dressed Crowley, sans glasses, perched on the rolling office chair with one long leg crossed over the other. 

“I was resting,” Gabriel replies and grimaces when it comes out defensively. 

“Well, you’re done resting now. Up and at ‘em. It is lesson time.” Crowley springs up onto his feet with serpentine ease. 

“Lesson time?” Gabriel sits up and rubs his eyes. 

“Well, alright, neither of us are really sure what lesson you’re supposed to learn but while you’re here we might as well make use of the time. Come on, dress warmly, we’re going to the beach.” 

Gabriel isn’t sure what lesson he’s supposed to learn from chilling winds and crashing waves. It is hardly the type of day to go onto the beach, but Crowley has a bucket and a scarf tucked up around his neck and looks completely at home in the sand. He’s gone barefoot, but Gabriel has kept his shoes on despite his disdain for the wet sand clinging to them. 

“What are we doing?” He shouts over the wail of the wind. If he looks out at the sea all he can see are white sprays of water hitting rocks. The sea is jumbled, churning and angry, and despite being immortal there’s an instinct in the back of his mind that tells him to flee to higher ground. 

“Looking for treasures!” Crowley’s voice reaches him over the wind and to make a point, he bends down to pick something up out of the sand. “Best time to find the good stuff is during a storm like this.” 

“You’re mad,” Gabriel calls out and folds his arms across his chest as the wind bites into his face. It is silence after that, at least between them. Crowley pauses and considers rocks on the ground. He dances away from waves that come a bit too close, before slithering back down to the water line to see what they’ve dredged up. What strikes Gabriel is the absolute joy he finds in Crowley’s uncovered eyes. They seem to glow with the excitement of it all. 

They must have been at it for over an hour when Gabriel notices the wind easing. He’s shivering. Angels need to shiver just as much as they need to eat or sleep, which is to say they don’t. But Gabriel determines from his time spent on earth that shivering is the appropriate way to physically demonstrate his misery, so shivering it is. 

He doesn’t expect Crowley to double back around to him, remove his scarf, and drape it around Gabriel’s neck. 

“What are you doing?” He doesn’t have to shout now that the skies, still gray, have calmed. 

“You’re cold. Take it.” Without any further explanation, Crowley turns to resume his treasure hunting. It vexes Gabriel who trails after him even as he wraps the scarf tightly around his neck and allows his shivering to ease. 

They continue quietly once more, though Gabriel catches the little sounds Crowley makes now. There are thoughtful hums and cut-off noises of displeasure as he searches through the sand with a strategy that is difficult to pin down. Finally, Gabriel’s curiosity gets the best of him. 

“What are you looking for exactly?” 

Crowley glances at him and misses his cue to step out of the way of a gently rolling wave that laps at his feet. He visibly shivers. “Anything interesting or unique,” he replies with a shrug. “I’ll know what I’m looking for when I find it.” 

Gabriel fails to understand the concept. He’ll know when he finds it? What sort of planning is that? He thinks back to Heaven and all of its paperwork and policies and processes that have rhyme and reason and then takes a look at Crowley and all of it crumbles. All this time he was certain that Crowley’s serpentine pattern through the sand had some sort of reasoning, but in reality they’ve been wandering for nearly an hour and a half now with no clear goal in sight. 

He makes a frustrated sound and shuts his eyes against it. “That’s absurd,” he grits out. 

“Yes,” Crowley turns and grins, “that’s sort of the point. What’s the fun of being immortal if we can’t allow ourselves a little absurdity from time to time. Here, look.” He bends down and grabs something out of the sand. 

Gabriel hesitantly approaches, coming up alongside Crowley who brushes sand off of what is in his hand before he offers it for Gabriel’s inspection. It is a spiraling shell about the size of a kiwi, with textured whorls, painted in creams and oranges with little dark spots. He’s reminded of Aziraphale’s explanation of finger painting and wonders if God fingerpainted this Herself, Her prints pressed into the surface. 

“See?” Crowley says, and Gabriel doesn’t, not really, so he glances nervously at Crowley in silent question. 

“You don’t always have to know what you’re looking for,” Crowley explains, “sometimes you just find it.” He presses the seashell into Gabriel’s hand. It is cool to the touch and he runs his thumb along the whorling ridges. There’s a moment where they both stare at the shell in his hand and then it is broken by Crowley making a noise in his throat and stepping away to continue his search. 

Gabriel tucks the seashell away in the pocket of his coat, touching it every once and a while as they make their way down the shoreline. 

**

By the evening, Gabriel returns from a walk on his own, having left Crowley and Aziraphale some time to themselves. He’s imposed, and despite it not being his choice he figures they all could use some time away. The seashell is still in his pocket and he feels for it occasionally, brushing his fingers along the edges to memorize its shape and paths.  
  
When he slips inside he hears soft voices and heads toward the main sitting room only to pause just around the corner. Aziraphale and Crowley are on the couch together, Crowley straddling Aziraphale’s lap as they exchange languid, lingering kisses. Aziraphale’s hands are in Crowley’s hair, fingers curled into dark red locks, and Crowley’s fingers dig into Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding on like a sailor in a storm. 

He hurries by, thinking about _lust_ and _sin_ chased by _loneliness_ and _yearning_ . Once he’s back in the office he sinks into the futon and presses his fist to his mouth, closing his eyes. There’s so much _love_ , it seeps beneath skin and muscle straight into the meat of him, straight to the core. It vibrates through the walls and leaves the taste of cherries in his mouth. Love, ringing out like church bells, filling all the empty spaces in the cottage with warmth. 

It is too much and not enough, and Gabriel wonders what it must be like to experience it first hand instead of its echoes. 

Eventually he sneaks out of the room and onto the back deck overlooking the back garden. He’s brought a blanket and he spreads it out across the sea-damp wood and sits, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. When he’s in this position he can rest his chin between his knees and peer up at the unobscured sky. 

He seeks out Orion, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, then traces through the other groupings of stars the humans named so long ago. It isn’t that Gabriel doesn’t love humanity, or love the earth. He just doesn’t love it as much as he loves Her. It can’t be helped, really. It is written in his DNA, woven into skin and imprinted onto his heart. 

That’s why he insisted on war. That’s why he ignored Aziraphale’s pleading to save the world. That’s why he subjected his fellow angel to hellfire. It was supposed to be Her plan, Her Great Plan, and he loved Her enough to fight for it, fight for Her. In spite of that, it turned out Her plan was something greater than that, and he had been nothing but a pawn, a lost soldier, following orders that were no longer valid. 

For a moment, he doubts Her. Is hurt by Her. It slithers out of some deep, dark hole inside of him where he’s kept it locked up for so long. Has he ever been loved? Does She care? It has been so long since She’s spoken to any of them, since She’s come to see them. Gabriel closes his eyes and allows hot tears to run in scalding lines down his cheeks as he buries his face in his knees. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and his touch softer as the heat of him sits down on the blanket, pressing close to Gabriel. “It is alright. Hush now.” There’s an arm around him, pulling him into a soft side - everything about Aziraphale is soft - and Gabriel gives in. He allows the dam to break and turns into the embrace, clinging to Aziraphale like the brother he is. 

Aziraphale pets his hair, smoothes it back from his burning face, whispers soft nothings into his ear, and rocks them both gently. Gabriel digs his fingers into the back of Aziraphale’s jumper and tries not to rip it, his face pressing into his shoulder as his breaths come in shuddering sobs. 

“Shh,” Aziraphale soothes, a hand rubbing along his back where his wings would be, “I have you.” 

The moments slide by and the pain in Gabriel’s chest eases the more he cries until he’s exhausted. His sobs become sniffles against the now wet fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, for the first time in a very long time. Gabriel has rarely felt the need to apologize. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, dear boy,” Aziraphale insists, fingers continuing to run comfortingly through Gabriel’s short hair. “Not anymore. All is forgiven.” Gabriel realizes belatedly that Aziraphale isn’t just referring to the bout of crying. 

It is quiet after that. There’s a chorus of chirps and croaks from nighttime creatures and not much else as they sit on the blanket on the deck. Gabriel knows he’s well past crying but he doesn’t want to pull away or leave Aziraphale’s embrace. 

“I thought you deserved to die.” It is strange to say it with his head pillowed in Aziraphale’s shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around his waist, but Gabriel does it anyway. It has to be said. He can’t accept forgiveness without admitting his sins first. 

“Clearly,” Aziraphale responds wryly, his fingers still carding gently through Gabriel’s hair. He quiets, a silent encouragement to continue. 

“All I’ve had for millions of years is the promise of the Great Plan. With no word from the Almighty it was all we had to go on. Let humanity grow and change, do a few miracles here, allow some terrible things to happen there, and then it would all accumulate into a war and a victory for Heaven. I believed that. It was all I could believe.” And he’d thought maybe if they punished the person who prevented that victory, then perhaps the Almighty would end Her streak of silence. 

Gabriel falls silent and stares up at the dark sky. “I was wrong. I did what I thought I was supposed to do but She still didn’t come back to us.” There is no war to fight now, no end game, just an eternity littered with broken glass and tattered relationships. 

“I think we’re meant to make our own future, Gabriel.” Aziraphale’s hand stills, fingertips pressed against his scalp. “I think that’s what we’ve been meant to do this entire time. Free will and all that.” 

“Humans are supposed to be the ones to take advantage of free will, not us.” Gabriel wants order, wants paperwork, and procedures, and a clear roadmap of what comes next. The thought of losing those things leaves him unbalanced and dizzy, an unmoored ship in a tumultuous bay. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says in a way that means he doesn’t agree. “But here we are, exercising free will left and right, preventing the apocalypse and attempting to set our coworkers on fire.” 

Gabriel grimaces and Aziraphale’s hand starts up its gentle petting again, soothing away the sting of his words. 

“You really love this world, don’t you?” Gabriel says after a moment. He doesn’t understand it yet, not really, but as he gazes at the sky and thinks about Charlie and his stray cat, or Crowley and his seashells, maybe he can begin to. 

“I do.” The way Aziraphale says it is so sure, so resolute. It brings to mind the image of an angel ready to wield a flaming sword against death itself to prevent the end of the thing he loves most. Gabriel should have known then, should have understood it the moment Aziraphale took up arms against the Great Plan. 

“And him?” Gabriel asks, and Aziraphale’s hand pauses. 

“Yes.” 

Gabriel sees Eden in the answer, lush green trees and bright fruit. He can smell the first rains that fell and feel the brush of feathers against the top of his head. There’s a serpent, and an angel, and the beginning of something that will save the world. 

“Will you stay with me?” Gabriel murmurs as he tucks in closer and tries to fit his long, broad, too-tall body against Aziraphale’s soft curves. “I miss Heaven.” _I miss home_. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says kindly and presses his nose into Gabriel’s hair, holding him close. 

They watch the stars together until dawn breaks. 

**

Come dawn, Gabriel gives sleeping a try. It is strange at first and he tosses and turns on the futon for a while, restless and unsure what sleeping entails. He closes his eyes and then opens them, flops onto the opposite side and closes them again. 

Eventually he ends up sprawled out on his belly, face tucked into a pillow, one arm under it and the other resting on the bed. In this position, when he closes his eyes, the muscles of his corporeal form relax and his wings manifest. They stretch out, draping over the edges of the futon, the ends of them touching the floor. It is like this that sleep finally finds him. 

Somewhere in the haze of it he realizes there are fingers carding through his wings, preening them, grooming them. He can’t help but hum in delight because it has been so long since someone has offered to help him with his wings. Usually he’s left to take care of them on his own, twisting and turning to brush out loose feathers and oil them until they shine. 

This is an entirely different sensation, like finally finding the right spot to scratch an itch. Is it Michael whose grooming him? Every once in a millennia she gets into a mood and fusses over him in the most delightful ways. But no, that’s not right. He’s not in heaven, and Michael wouldn’t come down to earth to fuss with his wings. He’s in Aizraphale’s cottage, in South Downs, trying to sleep. 

Then who…? 

“Relax, Gabriel,” She says, pressing against the spot between his shoulder blades. Her fingertips work miracles against the tense muscles there and Gabriel lets out a deep sigh. 

“You’re here.” He can’t see Her, won’t even bother trying to lift his head. Gabriel fears if he does then She’ll leave and he’ll be alone again, lost and wandering. 

“I am.” God runs Her fingers up along the line of his right wing before carding down through feathers. Gabriel shivers. He stays quiet, focusing on all the shivery sensations Her fingers on his wings offer him. He tries to remember the last time She was with Her host, grooming, talking, soothing. 

“I’ve missed You,” he admits. 

“I’m never far,” She replies. 

“That’s not true.” She’s been nothing but far. She’s been the furthest away She could be, leaving Gabriel and the other archangels to try and figure out what is supposed to come next. They devised the heavenly structures of employment based on an absentee CEO for the sake of maintaining order and preparing for The War. Then it didn’t come, it fizzled out before it got started, because of a human boy who loved his friends and an angel and a demon who loved humanity. 

“You could have prevented all of this.” He wishes there could be more heat in his words, but She’s still working Her fingers through his wings and it is hypnotic and distracting. 

“That’s the tricky bit about free will, I’m afraid,” She says as She straightens feathers. “Being in control of it defeats the purpose.” 

“Do You have a plan?” Gabriel asks and God laughs, gathering feather oil in Her fingers and dragging it down through his primaries. 

“Of course.” She finishes up on his right wing and moves to the left. Gabriel waits to see if She plans to say more, but She doesn’t. Instead, God hums with delight and it is a heavenly, holy sound that makes his skin tingle. 

“Ineffable,” Gabriel mumbles into the pillow. 

“Ineffable,” God confirms, then gently plucks a feather out of his wing that was about to come out anyway. He winces, She leans in and kisses the back of his neck as an apology before continuing. 

“Then why are You here? Why now? Does this defeat the purpose of free will, the purpose of whatever lesson You sent me down here for?” 

“I came to tell you that I’m proud of you, Gabriel.” The words hit him like a punch to the gut and suddenly it is difficult to breathe. _Why_ and _how_ and _I’m terrible_ and _I’ve been doubting You_ all spring to his mind but don’t make it out of his mouth. Instead, there are tears, and the sudden inability to take a deep breath. 

“I’m proud of you for doubting,” She continues as if She can hear his thoughts. _She can_. “There’s no sin in doubt, Gabriel. Only healing, and relationship, and conversations to be had. Wrestle with Me, I don’t mind. I can handle it.” 

Her hands leave him and She makes a thoughtful, pleased noise. “Your wings are looking much better.” 

“Thank you,” Gabriel whispers, still too scared to look at Her. If he does, he worries he will be burned away. Hellfire will spring from the ground and he will fall, and fall, and _fall_. 

“Oh, Gabriel,” there are soft hands gathering him up, molding him and manhandling him until he’s tucked securely in Her arms. He wraps his wings around Her, desperate to keep Her close. 

“I’m proud of you,” She whispers again, right against his ear before She presses a kiss to his temple.

Gabriel startles awake from the sound of a door opening and sits up, his wings gone, already tucked away and out of sight. He glances around the room, heart pounding, desperate for any last glimpse of Her, any proof that She had been there. All he gets is Crowley standing in the doorway looking at him curiously. 

“Aziraphale wanted me to wake you for lunch,” he says cautiously, “everything alright?” 

Gabriel wipes at his eyes, “yes.” _No_. 

“He’s made scones. The human way. Was up bright and early and thought you might like them. He’s made sandwiches too,” Crowley fills the air, offers a distraction, and Gabriel will never admit that he’s grateful. “C’mon, he’ll get testy if we take too long.” 

Crowley disappears from the doorway but leaves it open in invitation.

Gabriel ends up downstairs sitting around their quaint little table in the dining nook off the kitchen. There’s quite a spread laid out with tea and scones and clotted cream and jam and little sandwiches. He doesn’t usually eat, it has never been his pleasure, but Aziraphale went on about the process of making the scones from scratch and it would be rude not to try them. 

They just so happen to be delicious and Gabriel eats two, with a mix of jam and clotted cream on them. He even manages a few sips of tea, made better when Crowley scoops two spoonfuls of sugar into it after Aziraphale turns to attend to something else. 

“Tea is bitter otherwise,” Crowley whispers as if sharing a dangerous secret and Gabriel regards Aziraphale’s back thoughtfully as he absorbs the information. 

Lunch is pleasant, although Gabriel is distracted trying to recall bits and pieces of his dream. Sometimes he reaches for it and it slips out of his grasp. Other times he grabs hold of a single moment, a single feeling, and bites down on it until it is nothing. Could it have been just a dream? His subconscious begging for some sort of relief? No, he thinks. Because after the dream there’s a lightness in his chest that wasn’t there before and the echo of _I’m proud of you_ bounces around his skull and is as real as the table beneath his hands. 

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale asks and he glances up and realizes that something came before his name and he missed it. “Everything alright?” 

“Of course,” Gabriel smiles reflexively, then tries again for an expression that’s a bit more genuine. He’s not sure what comes out, but Aziraphale’s gaze softens at it. He reaches out and pats Gabriel’s hand. 

They change the subject, and Gabriel is grateful. 

**

Gabriel sits outside on the deck again, this time while the sun is shining. He’s sitting on a chair instead of a blanket, eyes trailing over gently swaying trees and Crowley’s lush garden. Crowley and Aziraphale invited him to town with them but he politely declined, citing a need to sit and think. They both looked surprised, but there was something akin to understanding in Aziraphale’s eyes as he tugged Crowley away. 

Beside him, in the midst of his contemplation, there’s a crackle of energy that he recognizes.   
  
“Michael.” He slowly turns his head to glance at her where she stands beside the chair, hands held primly in front of her. 

“Gabriel,” she offers him a tiny smile that almost seems genuine. There’s relief in her eyes. “You can come back to heaven now. I’ve been sent by the Metatron. Whatever it is you were meant to do down here, it has been accomplished.” 

It is curious the way Gabriel’s heart sinks at that, and his stomach tightens and lips curl into a frown. A look of confusion plays across Michael’s face in the downturn of her own lips and the wrinkle of her brow. 

“Is this not good news?” She asks. “I can’t imagine you’ve been enjoying yourself here.” 

“You’d be surprised,” he says as he rests his head back against the chair and looks up to the sky. 

“I am. Surprised, that is.” Gabriel hears her drag another patio chair over to sit beside him. It is a very human thing and he wonders if he really is the last one to get the memo.

“Do you like me, Michael?” He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to see the expression on her face or the way she tries to mask her immediate reaction. He wants to let her answer without inferring, or jumping to conclusions. 

“I love you, Gabriel,” Michael answers, sounding a bit like someone who has just run a mile in an attempt to get away from a tiger or some such beast. Like she has to squeeze the words out of her very being to find an ounce of truth in them. 

“That isn’t the same as like though, is it.” Statement, not a question. He knows the answer. Heavens, he _knew_ the answer even before he asked. Being on earth, thinking about things, he can look back and see all the ways Michael and the rest express their dislike even as they are forced to love him. 

What a terrible spot to be in. He frowns at the sky. 

There’s a beat of silence before a hand against his arm startles him and he immediately yanks it away, cradling it to his chest as if he’s been scalded. He still refuses to look at her, to face the pity in her eyes. 

“Look at me, you silly fool,” Michael insists, and when Gabriel doesn’t she stands and comes around the front of him, hands on the arms of his chair, face in front of his. When his eyes flick to hers there’s an immediate lump in his throat as he’s overcome by the confusion, the hurt, and most of all the genuine _concern_ in her eyes. 

“I don’t like you all the time, no,” she admits and he tries not to flinch, but she reaches up and cups his cheek as if to soothe the harshness of her words. “But that’s normal. You can be so pompous sometimes, so full of yourself, and so stalwart in your opinion that there’s nothing better than Heaven. But I’ve been to earth countless times, I’ve even been to Hell, and there’s something to be said for it.” 

“Do you doubt?” Gabriel asks as he turns his head and noses against her palm, breathing in the smell of ozone and fresh rain that clings to her skin.

“Doubt what?” 

“The Great Plan.” He looks at her and watches as a guarded look crosses her face before she appears to resign herself to the answer. 

“Yes.” Michael leaves it at that. Gabriel stares at her and wonders how she can admit to it so easily, when his own doubt had been eating a hole right in the center of him from the moment he saw an apology in the Christ-child’s eyes. 

Something tender makes its way across Michael’s face as she brushes a thumb along Gabriel’s cheekbone. “You’ve been learning lessons down here.” 

“Yes.” Gabriel almost chokes on it and closes his eyes as he presses his head forward and she meets him part-way there, foreheads touching. 

“Good,” her breath ghosts across his nose, his cheek, “but don’t change too much, Gabriel. Just enough to let you mingle with the rest of us imperfect creatures.” 

Michael stays for a while longer, until Gabriel’s unnecessary heartbeat slows and the panic recedes. Then she leaves in another crackle of energy, bidding him to come home soon. There’s paperwork he’s missing and she’s tired of doing it all herself. 

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale’s voice rings out from inside the house, “are you still here?” 

He gets out of the chair and goes inside to meet Aziraphale and Crowley in the kitchen. Crowley is carrying a stack of old books and looks appropriately annoyed by it, while Aziraphale carefully sets down brown grocery bags on the counter. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale smiles, “I hoped you’d still be here. I bought groceries, thought I would make us dinner.” 

Grace is a funny thing, Gabriel decides. It looks like walks on a beach, gifted seashells, finding lost cats, and homemade meals. It looks like honesty, even when the truth is hard, and love even when liking is made difficult by a bad attitude. Grace is second chances, feathers being groomed, and doubt being cherished instead of punished. 

Where has grace been all this time? Apparently here on earth, where despite pain and suffering, it exists in soft touches, kind embraces, and overcoming differences. 

The kitchen in the cottage in South Downs becomes a bustling hub of clanking pans (Aziraphale), soft curses (Crowley), and fruitless attempts to help prepare a meal (Gabriel). It is utterly human, despite there not being a single one in the room, and Gabriel revels in it even as he is chased out of the kitchen by Aziraphale wielding a dishtowel. 

Dinner is consumed to varying degrees and the three of them end up sprawling across the living room. Aziraphale and Crowley take up space on the floor on their backs, Crowley’s head tucked up against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale has a book he’s quietly reading out loud while Crowley dozes.   
  
Gabriel chooses the couch, laying his broad body across all the cushions, also on his back with an arm across his eyes. He listens to Aziraphale’s soft voice and Crowley’s gentle breathing and the breeze jingling the wind chimes outside. 

_This is what I’ve been missing_ he thinks, as love curls around him like a heavy blanket protecting him against the cold. 

He dozes and dreams of fingerpaints, seashells, and a soft voice saying _I’m proud of you_. 


End file.
